Lost
by thedragonaunt
Summary: This one-shot contains SERIOUS SPOILERS for the Sherlock Special, The Abominable Bride. If you HAVE NOT seen that, DO NOT read this! It is NOT part of my Sherlolly Saga. Rated T for certain references, which some people may find upsetting.


This story contains SERIOUS SPOILERS for the Sherlock Special – The Abominable Bride.

It is a companion piece to my S3 one-shot 'Over' and is inspired by BBC canon.

It is not part of my Sherlolly Saga but it is Sherlolly-ish.

 **Lost**

 **by**

 **thedragonaunt**

January was the darkest month in Molly Hooper's calendar. Coming as it did immediately after the festivities of Christmas, it wallowed in a deep pool of anti-climax. Her dear father had passed away in January, just a few short years ago, and the pain of loss always returned with a vengeance as the anniversary of that sad event approached. And the awful British weather did nothing to lift her mood. January was always cold, wet and windy. The days were short, the nights long and there was nothing on the immediate horizon to look forward to. But this January had added another black mark to its tally - Sherlock was gone.

Gone! Oh, how that word stabbed at her heart, causing her breath to hitch and tears to spring unbidden to her eyes. For once, she was grateful for the rain. Who would notice a few more drops of moisture in this deluge? Molly cuffed at her eyes to clear her vision and trudged on, though the downpour.

As she reached the archway that led into the inner courtyard of St Bart's Hospital, giving access to the Pathology Department – her usual morning destination – her attention was caught and her progress halted by an unexpected sound.

'Dr Hooper.'

Molly turned toward the voice that she did not recognise and saw a woman dressed in a dark suit, standing beside a sleek black limousine, battling the wind for control of a large umbrella, her long dark hair blowing wildly about her head and shoulders.

'Dr Hooper?' the woman said again.

'Yes, I'm Dr Hooper. And you are..?'

'Please, would you step into the car, Dr Hooper?' said the woman.

'No,' Molly replied. 'I won't. I'm already late for work. And, anyway, why would I step into a strange car? I may look stupid…'

'Dr Hooper…' A different voice spoke, through the blacked-out car window that had slid down, silently, just enough to allow her a glimpse of a familiar face that matched the familiar voice.

Molly had met this person a few times and, although he had always been polite and courteous toward her, she found him rather intimidating. Now he was here, outside her place of work, obviously waiting for her. He had been instrumental in arranging her visit to Paddington Green Police Station, just two days before, so she probably should thank him for that. Molly crossed the pavement to the limousine and, as the woman opened the door, she climbed inside and took the jump seat opposite Mycroft Holmes.

'Dr Hooper…' said Mycroft, leaning back in his seat, looking anything but relaxed. The knuckles of the hand that gripped the handle of his ubiquitous umbrella were white, his lips were pressed into a pale, thin line and his brows were beetled.

 _Well_ , thought Molly, _he has just sent his only brother to certain death. He is probably entitled to feel…something_.

'Has he gone?' Molly interjected, more sharply than she had intended, and was surprised to see the usually all-seeing, all-knowing Mycroft Holmes look momentarily confused. Then realisation appeared to dawn and his mouth opened in a silent 'Oh'.

'Have you seen the news, doctor? It was on every screen in the country.'

Now it was Molly's turn to be confused – for a moment.

'Oh, you mean Moriarty?' she asked, somewhat rhetorically. 'Well, I don't know who's behind all that but it certainly is _not_ Jim Moriarty, Mr Holmes,' she declared, emphatically. 'I carried out his post mortem and, trust me, that man is dead! But,' she paused, not wishing to appear rude but requiring an answer to her original question, 'what does he have to do with Sherlock's suicide mission?'

Wrinkling his nose at her use of such lurid terminology, Mycroft replied,

'Well, Doctor Hooper, the powers-that-be have decreed that Sherlock's unique skill set is essential to solving the riddle of Moriarty's apparent return so, to that end, his planned departure has been…deferred.'

Molly stared at the man opposite, still trying to process what he had just said.

'So…so…he's not being sent on this…mission?' she managed to stutter, at last.

'No…not immediately, at least - though I have no doubt that some sort of recompense will be extracted, at some point. He did, after all, kill a man in cold blood,' was Mycroft's terse reply.

Molly felt a palpable relief wash over her and felt her spirits soar.

'Oh, thank God! And thank you, Mr Holmes! Thank you so much for letting me know!' she gushed. 'So, is he back home, in Baker Street? I must go and…'

'Dr Hooper!' Mycroft barked, causing Molly to start in her seat and look at him in alarm. 'That is not why I came to see you,' he growled, narrowing his gaze, menacingly.

 _How stupid of me_ , thought Molly. _This is Mycroft Holmes! Why would he come all the way to Bart's just to tell me something I might well already know?_

'I…I'm sorry. What, then? Why are you here?' she stammered, feeling suddenly apprehensive.

'How did you do it?' he asked, fixing her with a cold intense stare.

'Do what?' she asked.

'This!' he snapped, taking from his breast pocket a sheet of paper – or rather a reconstructed piece of paper that had obviously been torn into several pieces and then painstakingly put back together, with a liberal application of sticky tape.

'What is that?' Molly asked, not sure if she was expected to take it from his hand or not.

'Read it, doctor.' Mycroft ordered and held it out to her.

Molly took the sheet of paper gingerly and unfolded it, immediately recognising both the handwriting and what was written. She blinked several times and read it again. She knew exactly what it was. Her spirits that had so recently risen sank back to the depths of despair once more. It was her worst nightmare, come true.

Throughout Sherlock's prolonged hospitalisation, following the shooting but – more pertinently – as a result of the further damage caused by him recklessly absconding from Intensive Care in search of the person who had shot him, Molly had been concerned at the amount of morphine required to manage his pain effectively.

She had raised the matter with his care team, on more than one occasion, drawing their attention to his history as a narcotics abuser but he was not her patient – not even in her hospital – so she was powerless to impose any alternative care plan. However, it was easy to see why and how Sherlock might now be more dependent on such substances than ever before. She had hoped this would not be the case but, in her heart of hearts, she knew it was almost inevitable.

'Wh…where did you get this? And wh…what..? Why are you showing it to me?' she gasped, though she already knew the answer to all those questions – even the unfinished one. No wonder he looked so thin and gaunt when she last saw him! Little wonder he had no appetite for food. If he had been using regularly prior to his arrest, he would have experienced the most brutal withdrawal symptoms during his week of incarceration.

'You are the only person who could have done it, doctor,' Mycroft growled, treating Molly to the full force of his glowering disapproval. 'He was in solitary confinement in the most secure police station in the land. And you were the only person permitted to visit him. And,' he added, before she could utter a word in rebuttal, 'I have it on good authority that – against all instructions to the contrary – you made physical contact with my brother. Granted, it was only for a moment – a second at most – but somehow, in that time, you managed to pass him these…substances!' he hissed, barely restrained fury oozing from every pore.

Molly was cowed by the intensity of the disdain in his demeanour but also outraged at the sheer injustice of his accusation. It was that that snapped her out of her stupor.

'How could you..?' she gasped. 'How could you even imagine that I would do such a thing? Did they search him, after my visit? They certainly searched me before!'

She glared back at her accuser, trembling under his gaze, but not from fear - more from shock, horror and indignation.

'Yes, he was thoroughly searched both before and after your visit. Obviously, nothing was found but my brother is abnormally adept at…concealment,' Mycroft retorted. Molly had to agree that was true. However…

'As if I, of all people, would give him these!' - she shook the sheet of paper under Mycroft's nose, disregarding the flaring nostrils. 'How dare you even think such a thing!' she berated him, the affront overcoming any fear she may have had of Sherlock's omnipotent sibling.

But Mycroft Holmes was less than impressed with her vehement protestations.

'Sherlock is a master of the art of manipulating those who care for him,' he intoned. 'I should know…'

Molly squared her shoulders, defiantly, and said,

'I am well aware of Sherlock's ability to play on people's emotions in order to achieve his aims but I can assure you that I am entirely immune to his charms in that regard ever since… Well, never mind since when. But I can assure you, Mr Holmes, that wherever he got this stuff, it was not from me. But, bearing in mind your previous statement, perhaps you should be directing your resources toward the staff at Paddington Green? He had a whole week to work on them.'

'We are following several lines of enquiry, Dr Hooper, _I can assure you_ ,' Mycroft replied, haughtily repeating her phrase back to her.

'Well, you're barking up the wrong tree here,' Molly snapped, 'but, more importantly, where is he? How is he? And who is looking after him?'

Mycroft returned her reproachful stare with one of irritation but then seemed to deflate before her very eyes. The mask of the Iceman melted away, leaving the wounded soul exposed. Sinking back into his seat, he passed a none-too-steady hand across his brow and replied in a voice laden with despair.

'He's gone off with the Watsons, babbling some nonsense about a century-old cold case that somehow will help him discover who or what is behind Moriarty's timely reappearance.'

Molly frowned, pensively, leaning back in her own seat. That was not good news. If he was 'using' again, chances were he would have secret stashes in the most unlikely of places and…

'Quite so, Dr Hooper,' Mycroft agreed, reading her train of thought. 'Dr Watson does not know User-Sherlock as we do, though I did try to warn him.'

Molly nodded in agreement and, looking back at Mycroft Holmes, recognised a kindred spirit who wanted nothing but to save a certain Consulting Detective from his worst enemy - himself.

'Then it's down to you and I, Mr Holmes - who _do_ know him - to see that he comes to no further harm,' she said, defiantly.

'He won't accept my help,' Mycroft replied, defeated. 'I offered. He refused.'

'Well, Mycroft,' said Molly, reaching across to pat the British Government on the knee, 'we won't be taking 'no' for an answer because, if we do, he could so easily be lost. And that's not going to happen.'

ooOoo

 **I'm suffering PSTSD - Post Sherlock Traumatic Stress Disorder - so I just had to write this, for my own emotional health! If it helps** **anyone else - well, that's a bonus!**


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